


Unforgettable

by tenderly_wicked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt!Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Spoilers for Season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-08 12:14:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderly_wicked/pseuds/tenderly_wicked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a>this prompt</a>. Having returned from Serbia, Sherlock starts suffering from some kind of PTSD disorder, or so it seems. He can’t tell John, not now when John is safe and happy and married. Wouldn’t it be emotional blackmail, of a sort?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta mugenmine :-)

A sharp bite of pain catches him unawares, digs into his shoulder, and a glass of champagne slips from his hand. Bad timing. Not now, not at John’s wedding.

Sherlock manages to stay upright and hopes his face doesn’t show what’s going on.

“Another glass, sir?”

“Thank you, yes. Thank you. Yes.”

It’s ridiculous, it’s intolerable. He knows that the pain isn’t real, and yet it almost sends him to his knees, every time a fit hits him. It can be his arm, or his back, or his solar plexus. He can’t predict when his body will fail him again—and what part of it will be involved.

Concentrate, Sherlock tells himself, clutching at the new glass. Don’t lose it. The pain slicing through his shoulder makes his thoughts unbearably muddled, and Mycroft’s voice ringing in his head out of nowhere doesn’t help to restrain them at all. He’s never had auditory hallucinations before, and it’s exasperating, the more because it’s Mycroft in his head, of all people. His brother would probably find it funny.

Sherlock trudges through the crisis that has come up at the wedding—successfully if sluggishly, and John doesn’t notice that something is off with him, too busy with saving a life to look at those who are not in immediate danger. Sherlock isn’t sure if he’s glad about it. By the end of the day he’s able to waltz with the bridesmaid and handle the violin without wincing. The seizure is over for now.

Physically, he’s surprisingly fine. He hadn’t even needed to be taken to a hospital after Serbia, and every injury he’d sustained since then had healed marvelously—a burn from the bonfire was gone the next morning. Not even a blister. So it must be some kind of PTSD provoked by a certain trigger, as the pain isn’t permanent. What could it possibly be?

Surely, it’s something Serbia-related. Sleep deprivation, torture, the feeling of having failed right before he could finally return home… Of course it couldn’t leave him unscathed. And all these hallucinations with Mycroft talking to him when Mycroft wasn’t around—most likely, a deeply buried shock on seeing his brother in the moment of desperation when Mycroft _shouldn’t_ have been there at all.

Now Sherlock knows how John must have felt about his dysfunctional leg, distressed and worn out with waiting if it would get better or worse. Could there be a cure as simple as the one he’d discovered for John? He suspects where he might find it.

There’s a locked room in his mind palace, the only locked room in the whole structure. It hadn’t been there prior to Serbia. So the trigger is behind the closed door, in all likelihood. Something he’d preferred to hide even from himself, in a moment of cowardice. Something he’d chosen to forget.

Sherlock had stumbled upon this door while looking for information on the Tube. He’d stopped dead in front of it, touched the rough rusted iron of its handle. He’d been sure this delay had only taken a few moments in addition to his search, but Molly had told him afterwards that he’d been standing there, with his eyes closed, for more than a minute, seemingly catatonic.

Then he’d started seeing the door on every visit to his mind palace, no matter which part of it he’d chosen to check. A haunting. And the amount of time Sherlock seemed to spend facing it was growing.

Sometimes he finds himself in the mind palace without reason. He can’t remember getting there. He has to force his eyes to snap open in the real world. And sometimes, he finds out that a few moments, or minutes, or half an hour are missing, and he doesn’t know what he’s been doing. Probably it has something to do with the mind palace as well, but he’s not sure.

Sherlock wants to tell John about it but doesn’t know how. What would John say? Send him to a therapist, like it would do any good?

Or would he be so worried that he’d insist on staying with Sherlock for a while?

Sherlock feels a sudden twinge of longing at this thought. It’s undeniable—he wants John back. Desperately, immediately if possible. He wants to call John, tear him away from his honeymoon, from his funny little wife and the child on the way. It would be a cruel, selfish thing to do, and yet it’s unbearably tempting.

“Oh, you happen to know a lot about emotional blackmail, brother dear,” Mycroft’s voice sing-songs in his head. “Why haven’t you told John about the snipers then? About you saving him, and not just taking down Moriarty’s web?”

“You know why,” Sherlock snarls. People start looking at him. He’s standing in the street, talking to himself. Just great. Sherlock pulls his coat tighter around him, flipping the collar up, and walks past the unwanted spectators.

Wasn’t it what he wanted? John is happy, John is safe, more or less. And if happiness means moving on, it would be unfair to drag John back by making him feel indebted and somewhat guilty.

Sherlock is only a few doors down from his flat, and he has absolutely no idea how he’d got there from John’s wedding.

When Sherlock opens the door, there’s a sound of water running from a tap. A déjà vu. Mrs. Hudson is washing dishes. Why is she always washing dishes when he comes home? And how could she get to Baker Street faster than him?

The next moment, he’s suddenly in his bathroom, splashing cold water into his face. At least a minute is missing again—he doesn’t remember walking up the stairs.

Sherlock looks up into the mirror, droplets running from his wet hair. He looks appalling: exhausted, like he hasn’t slept for days. His arm is throbbing. “Hurts,” he catches himself murmuring. John, it hurts. John, please. Just one more miracle. Could you come back, if only for a short while?

Sherlock’s life has been full of miracles lately—Mycroft turning up in Serbia to come to his rescue, a bomb disarmed only a minute before it’s to go off, an attempted double assassination: first a guard, then John’s ex-commander, and surprisingly, no one’s dead in the end. So why not another incredible coincidence—John realizing how much Sherlock needs him right now, much more than Mary does, and rushing back to Baker Street? She’s going to have John for the whole life, and Sherlock only wants a few days more. Mary’s frighteningly understanding—an unbelievably ideal wife; she’d let John go. Not for good of course, and yet…

But it’s a miracle that is not going to happen. John is slowly drifting away, still visible but almost out of reach. He’d got used to not thinking about Sherlock during the two years of his absence. A bad habit.

It hurts to realize you’re forgettable after all. It hurts so much.


	2. Chapter 2

There’s something wrong with him, and as the days go by, it gets worse. The words “I don’t know” and “I’m not sure” slip from his tongue too often and too easily. He misses vital clues in a turmoil of unimportant detail—for god’s sake, he doesn’t even seem to be able to show off in front of John anymore: he’s very slow, junkies can make deductions faster than him. He tends to forget things, though he’s always had an excellent memory. He catches himself absently rubbing his wrists as if they are abraded and itching, which they are not, or worrying his lower lip in search of a cut that isn’t there. Sometimes he freezes in place, just like he’d done when John had come to talk about his wedding and about Sherlock being his best man, and these blackouts are growing longer in terrifying progression.

He tries to pick the lock on the closed door in his mind palace now and then, but half-heartedly. It’s humiliating to admit he’s afraid, and yet there’s no other explanation.

Sherlock wants someone to be around when the door snaps open, badly so. He clings on to people, trying to act abnormally nice-ish as John would call it. He makes the effort to be sociable. He asks Molly for a dinner, he listens to his mother talking on and on and on about some petty, mundane matters, he plays the game of “Operation” with Mycroft—something he’d hardly done since his childhood, and there’s John’s wedding too, mingling with the crowd and making speeches.

He even lets this woman… What is her name again? Joan, Jane, Jeanette… Ah, Janine. The process of elimination… He lets her wander around his flat in an inappropriate state of undress and relocate things in order to make his kitchen more cozy; he never knows where coffee is anymore. Despite her best efforts, nothing is likely to happen of course. Sherlock needs her for a case— _a case, yes, focus on it, focus_ —and also for simply being there, talking, laughing, breaking the silence. If sometimes he calls out, “Joh…”—he can always pretend that he was going to say her name. It’s convenient.

They could have been friends. Maybe. It’s a pity that he is… whatever he is.

He’s always alone in the end, even if surrounded by people. This feeling is at its worst in a drug den—an empty house for empty hearts, with paint peeling from the walls—where Sherlock can lie down among other outcasts and freaks and stop pretending he’s fine. It’s for a case, he has to remind himself, a very important one. Another villain. Another letter “M”. Why do villains always have names starting with “M”?

John says, “You could have called, you could have told me.” The words sound like an accusation. Molly slaps him. Her hand is surprisingly strong; Sherlock would never have thought her to be so athletic. His head is spinning a little, like she’s been hitting him for a good half an hour. He needs a bath. He needs John to stop making a face like he’s disgusted.

You’re such a disappointment, Sherlock. 

The life around him is rapidly falling to pieces, and he can’t seem to do anything clever about it anymore. When a bullet pierces through his body, crushing tender, soft tissue on its way, it’s like a bad dream, but deep inside Sherlock knows that it’s a punishment he deserves. There are consequences to being slow and missing suspicious signs. He’d let John Watson down. John is in danger, and it’s his fault. Human error. His error.

Molly slaps him again. Yes, he deserves this too.

He’d only wanted John to be happy and safe, and now John is neither, just because Sherlock had chosen to accept Mary without questioning her. She wasn’t supposed to be like that—one more letter “M” on the list, what a funny coincidence. Jim Moriarty is giggling in Sherlock’s mind palace, and rattling his chains. (Chains? Why is he chained?)

Sherlock feels dizzy, drifting between agony and morphine, but pain is dominating, overwhelming, and he can’t quite grasp what he wants to do about Mary and what he’d already done. He’s steadily bleeding, cold sweat breaking on his forehead, and John doesn’t pay attention, too deep in Mary-drama.

“You have to control the pain,” Jim Moriarty says soothingly. “You don’t have to fear it.” No one else is helping.

There’s another empty house, a poorly lit cellar, and eerie sounds of water seeping down the walls.

Then the three of them—he and John and Mary—are suddenly at Baker Street again, and Mrs. Hudson is peacefully washing dishes, like she always does. (Why does she?)

And then it’s his parents’ cottage, lavishly decorated for Christmas, unusually welcoming and comfy, with bright garlands and mistletoe everywhere. It’s unexpected and thus a bit disturbing. Does it mean that _months_ are missing? Does it mean that his parents are happy to see him? (Why are they?) For an hour or so, it feels like a home Sherlock craves for, but he knows it won’t last.

His life is a jigsaw puzzle falling apart. He needs to decide which way it’s going to fall, and so he does, pulling the trigger for John’s sake and killing Magnussen. He might be confused about time and place and his sanity, but one thing is certain: he’s prepared to do anything to keep John safe. Nothing has changed.

A white searchlight blinds him for a moment. “Sherlock, we’re losing you.” (Why does his chest hurt so much again, hadn’t it been happening before?) _Don’t be an idiot, John_ , he wants to say, calm and infinitely tired. _I’m already lost._ For some reason, he’d always known that coming home would do him no good. So he’s going back—to Eastern Europe, to being dead.

“You’d like it,” Moriarty assures him, but it’s of little consolation.

Sherlock only gets a handshake from John, and maybe it’s for the best that they say their goodbyes so briefly. Sherlock had been afraid of blurting out something appallingly out of place. John might still have a future: Mary can give him not only domestic bliss but the excitement and danger he loves so much. He can be happy. There’s no need to make him suffer too.

When the plane turns round, Sherlock knows he must be hallucinating again. A picture from his mind palace, the smug face of a man long buried, is flickering on every TV-screen in the country—what can it be if not a delusion? If Moriarty were alive, why would someone want _him_ to deal with it? In his current state, Sherlock is not of much help to anyone.

It’s hard to breathe: Mary’s bullet must have fractured a rib, but shouldn’t it have healed by now?

He needs his wits back to survive as long as he can on a doomed mission. There’s something in his mind palace that shakes it from the inside, and he knows what he has to do, finally, now that there’s nothing to lose.

He has to break the locked door.

Break the door. Someone had been saying that lately…

“Hm. I wouldn’t recommend you do it,” Mycroft tells him—an omnipotent invisible presence. “Unwise, brother mine. You might not like what you’ll find there.”

“Out of my head. I’m busy,” Sherlock growls.

“You’d better think twice,” Mycroft warns him, but Sherlock isn’t listening.

He rams at the door with all of his strength, and then again, and again, no matter how much his body aches, and again…

“Do it, do it, do it,” Moriarty chants behind him, mockingly clanking his chains as an accompaniment. “You love surprises, Sherlock, don’t you? Oh, it’s going to be fun.”

Suddenly the lock gives in, and his last violent push sends Sherlock staggering forward—and he’s falling—falling—and there’s a blinding electric light, a tap dripping somewhere in the distance, and an uncanny sound of shackles rattling again. Footsteps—closer—and a splash of ice cold water into his face. An empty bucket clatters, thrown onto the floor. A groan—his own voice?

He’s naked from the waist up and barefoot and cold. His arms are chained to opposite walls of the room, forcing him to stay upright, but he’s slumped forward, unable to stand straight anymore, his knees buckle, and it does no good to his chafed and strained wrists. Blood oozes down his back, the raw patches stinging unbearably. Water drips from his chin, mixed with a string of saliva; his lower lip is badly bitten, puffed. At least one rib is broken, and burns marr his left arm, obviously not from saving John out of the bonfire.

The locked door in his mind palace. There wasn’t a room behind it at all. It was a way out.

He’s still in Serbia, in a poorly lit cell, being beaten to a pulp by the guards, and trying to stay sane.

Coming home, meeting John again, seeing everyone happy—had it all been happening in his head? Yes, very likely. Knowing he couldn’t escape, he’d chosen to retreat to his mind palace, bolt the door, and invent a reality for himself in there, a life where his elder brother would come to his rescue and John would call him his best friend and his parents would say they are worried about him. A life where bombs don’t go off and victims don’t die.

But even in his head, this ideal life seems to have gone terribly wrong. The pain had broken through, and his anguished loneliness, and fear for John, and the sound of dripping water. The gaps in his memory must have been actual blackouts. Mycroft’s ghostly voice should have given him a cue: Mycroft hadn’t been real, neither had the others. They had only been projections of the fears and doubts he hadn’t been able to forget. How very pathetic.

It’s Eastern Europe after all. And he won’t even last six months.

A harsh slap and then another make him jerk in his bonds and sag again, his long straggly hair falling across his face.

“You broke in here for a reason,” the guard says in Serbian. “Just tell us why and you can sleep. Remember sleep?”

He picks up a metal pipe, an effective instrument of persuasion, and prepares to strike, and the only thing Sherlock can do to stop him for a while is to play the card he’s been saving as his last chance—he tells the man about his past, and then about his wife having an affair with their neighbour. The guard storms off at once, full of apprehension and righteous anger, murmuring, “I knew it! I knew there was something going on!” There’s a jangle of bolts, the clang of the door being opened and closed, and Sherlock is left all alone, slumped in his chains.

There’s no man sitting in a dark corner of the room with his feet up on a table. No one to unlock the manacles. Sherlock struggles to stand up and fails. And then he tries again.

The chains are old and rusted. There must be a weak link. It has to be broken before the guard comes back.

Sherlock pulls on the left chain. It looks more promising, but it holds. He twists it and pulls again, the cuff digs into his damaged wrist, his arms agonizingly strained. He repeats the process, rhythmically, on and on—five jerks and a brief rest—and it takes him all his willpower not to think if it’s worth the effort. If he ever comes back, will it be just like he’d imagined? An empty flat, haunting memories, and John’s face contorting at his sight… There’s no need for Mycroft’s snide remarks. Sherlock knows it for himself: it is possible that he won’t be welcome.

His struggle gradually becomes less vigorous, and the rests get longer. He breathes in ragged, strenuous gasps.

When there’s a noise behind the heavy door—a muffled cry? The guard telling a young henchmen off for having earphones in his ears and listening to loud music again?—it’s almost relief that sweeps over Sherlock. No need to fight anymore. It’s all over now. He’s giddy and tired, and can’t bring himself to care.

“Sherlock!”

It’s a voice that doesn’t belong here. Footsteps clatter down the stairs. Sherlock forces his head up. It’s John. Slightly out of breath, dressed in khaki, and with a gun in his hand. It can’t be him.

“John?” Sherlock slurs. “You’re here—how?”

Fingertips brush over Sherlock’s cheek—so briefly that he can’t tell if he’d imagined it.

“The short version: I know. Everything.” John’s voice suddenly falters. “You have no idea the trouble it took to find you.”

“Is Mycroft here too?” Sherlock inquires huskily, still not sure whether he’s delusional again or not.

John lets out a laugh. “Mycroft leave the British government? England would fall. But he did help with resources.”

It seems convincing. More realistic than Mycroft working as a field agent.

A rattle of keys, and Sherlock drops to his knees in a tumbled heap as one of his arms is released. “Damn. Sorry,” John mutters. Then the other wrist is unchained too, and John carefully pulls him onto his feet.

Sherlock can’t help a groan. “Hurts,” he complains childishly.

“Sorry,” John whispers again. “Hold on just a little bit more. We need to get you out of here and into the helicopter. Can you walk?”

There’s no wedding ring on John’s hand. His shoulder is solid and real, and Sherlock leans heavily on it as they make their way up the stairs.

If it turns out that there’s another locked door in his mind palace, he doesn’t want to open it.

**Author's Note:**

> My [Tumblr](http://tenderlywicked.tumblr.com)
> 
> My M/M novel [Tenderly Wicked](https://www.amazon.com/Tenderly-Wicked-Katerina-Ross-ebook/dp/B01LYGUJ02/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1473767605&sr=1-1#nav-subnav)
> 
> My paranormal M/M series [The Sons of Gomorrah](http://a.co/0ttTWNF)


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